Don't Think
by Rainbowbananas
Summary: Set in season 6. Soulless Sam and Dean are on the road, hunting, and Dean really misses his Sammy. Sam notices. Things get weird and heavy. Kind of a PWP, but very angsty. Wincest. M for sex and language.


_A/N: This is set sometime in the last half of season 6. Soulless!Sam and Dean are on the road, hunting, and Dean really misses his Sammy. Sam notices, and things go downhill (ish) from there. No real spoilers other than Sam missing his soul, and vague references to Gordon and Martin (the hunter who went crazy that they helped in season 5). Also, this is very explicit Wincest, so if that's not your cup of tea, just move right along._

_Ok, I'm done babbling. Oh, no I'm not, one more thing: this isn't a happy fic. It's definitely PWP-y, but I'd say the angst is equally strong. No one's ok at the end of this thing. _

_Alright, done for real now. Thanks for reading!_

It's one in the morning, the hunt (a poltergeist with a fondness for throwing cutlery) is over, and Dean is driving way faster than he probably should, considering how many federal watch lists he and Sam are on. He doesn't have a choice; he has to get to the motel before the bloodstain he can feel growing beneath his armpit gets too big to hide from Sam. He grits his teeth and tightens his grip on the wheel, staring determinedly ahead at the pebbled glow of the headlights through the rain.

Only a few more miles. Dean speeds up a little more, and glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye, unable to help himself. The bastard is just sitting there calmly, looking out the window. He should be telling Dean to slow down, noticing the paleness of his skin, bitching about something. But Sam does none of these things, because – as Dean has to keep reminding himself – he's not actually Sam. He's the soulless husk of Sam, an evil doppelganger put here to torment Dean by looking exactly like his baby brother.

As they finally pull into the motel, Dean forces the thoughts of what it would be like if he had Sammy back out of his head. He doesn't long for their usual post-hunt banter, Dean gloating about saving Samantha's ass while Sam smirks and points out that Dean's tendency to smash down doors rather than picking the lock isn't really the best way to keep them out of danger. It's stupid, and they sound like children when they do it, but it's necessary. When you've just spent two hours dodging knives hurtling out of thin air at your head and stepping over the bloody, broken bodies of the civilians who didn't dodge and the whole time you can't decide if it's fear for your own life or fear that something is going to finally take your brother away that's twisting your stomach into knots… you need something to normalize the world after that. You need to look at a person who's just gone through the same thing, and see the same fear in their eyes, and laugh at it together. It's the only way to keep from pulling a Gordon Walker, or worse, a Martin Creaser.

These days, Dean's using whiskey instead of laughter to keep things on some sort of level. Numbness is definitely preferable to emotional implosion.

He definitely doesn't think about any of these things as they grab their bags and dump them by their beds. "I'm taking the first shower," he says, voice oddly loud in the silent room, and Sam nods, booting up his laptop.

This is how they communicate now. Details of the hunt, what the other wants to eat, where they'll meet when they split up, which is often, and that's it. Dean tried, a few times, to infuse something like their old camaraderie into their lives, but it was just too weird. His attempts at humor were met either with blank-faced does-not-compute stares or the emptiest laughter he'd ever heard from a human being. It was eerily reminiscent of the Yellow-Eyed Demon's laugh and it made Dean's skin crawl.

A sigh of relief escapes his lips as he shuts the bathroom door behind him. Being around Sam makes his chest ache and his fingers twitch with the desire to touch, to hold, to kiss, to find his brother beneath that cold, but still beautiful shell. That's one area he's never tried to force back to the way it was. Soulless Sam has never given any indication he remembers what they had. And the thought of those hazel eyes empty of the warmth, the _feeling _of any kind that belongs there – no. Dean just can't.

So he doesn't think about it.

Slowly, joints popping like he's eighty years old, he peels his clothes off. The cut is short, but deep, just under his left armpit. Blood slicks his entire side, soaking the waistband of his boxers. Fishing out the supplies he hid in his clean clothes, he sets about getting himself cleaned up. He doesn't think about showering with Sam, Sam's giant hands washing away the grime of the hunt and soothing away the pain of bruises and cuts.

Three stitches and a hot shower later, he feels almost like a person again. Ready to face the Saminator without shouting or throwing punches or crying. He opens the door and goes and flops on his bed, not letting himself watch Sam walk to the bathroom.

When the sound of running water starts, he sits up and rummages through his bags for the bottle of whiskey, holding it up and looking critically at the amount left. Probably should've picked up more today; he's definitely going to finish the bottle tonight.

He uncaps the bottle. "Here's to you, Sammy," he whispers, then takes a long pull, squeezing his eyes shut against the burn. He's talking to the real Sam, the one still stuck in Hell while Dean is sitting here drinking and not saving him.

Sadly, the bottle is finished before Sam even gets out of the bathroom. Sam still takes excessively long showers, but it occurs to Dean as he swallows the last of the whiskey that he might have drank it too fast. Oh well, it's not like he needs to be coherent or anything, he's just going to go to sleep in his queen bed while Sam stays up all night and researches. Or goes running. Or kills homeless people in alleys, whatever. A momentary vision of Sam having a meltdown over eggshell-white business cards makes him snort with laughter, then the bottle drops from his slack fingers and he sighs.

"Having fun?" says Sam from behind him and he jumps, then turns and looks hazily at his brother.

Oh, _shit_.

The tiny motel towel, which is all that Sam is wearing, hugs his narrow hips like it's in love. Dean doesn't blame it. The expanse of hard-muscled stomach, the droplets of water trickling down the well-developed chest, the smooth golden skin – they're enough to drive all the pain and guilt of missing the brother who's right next to him out of Dean's head for a minute. Only for a minute, though, because then his slightly fuzzy gaze gets to Sam's face and the heat that was building in the pit of his stomach turns to a block of ice. The expression is right; it's all Sammy, that adorable crooked grin he does when he thinks Dean's being idiotic. But the eyes looking at Dean from behind tendrils of damp hair don't belong with that look, they're sharp, predatory. It's like looking at shark about to chomp a seal or something.

Finally, Dean regains the power of speech. "M'fine. The hell's wrong with you, sneakin' up on me like that?" He's aware he's slurring a little, and doesn't care. Sleep is looking like the best of his options now, in lieu of more alcohol, anything not to keep looking at Sam the Shark.

Sam snorts and grabs some clothes from his bag, not bothering to turn away as he drops the towel to put his boxers on. He says something, probably something to the effect of "you're a drunk idiot, all I did was walk out of the bathroom," but Dean doesn't register more than the sarcastic tone. It's been a while since he's seen, well, _all _of Sam, and it's a sight he would've taken a moment to appreciate even under normal circumstances.

"Dean. You ok?" Now wearing boxers and a t-shirt, Sam looks quizzically at Dean as he rubs the towel (oh God, the towel) over his hair.

Dean shakes himself and turns around, feeling heat creep up his neck and face. "Yeah, I just…" Suddenly, there's no air in the room. Sam's cold eyes and naked body are seared into his brain and every time he blinks, they flash in front of his eyes. "Left somethin' in the car. Be right back." He walks as quickly and steadily as he can to the door, the whiskey making him feel like a canoe on the ocean during a storm. Or maybe it's not just the whiskey.

He's turning the doorknob when hands appear on either side of his head, flat against the door, holding it shut. Heat spreads gently over his back, emanating from the large body standing inches behind him.

"Sam." Dean rests his forehead against the door. "What are you doing?"

"I saw the way you just looked at me, Dean." The low voice sends shivers down Dean's neck, which he tries to suppress.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Now get away from me." He says to the door.

A chuckle sends more shivers down his spine and then he's being pressed into the door, Sam's hips rubbing just above his ass, the whole of his body up against Dean's and it feels so good, so perfect, and it's been so long, he just can't help the tiny moan that slips out.

"N-no, Sam, stop it. I don't… I…"

"Shh," Sam whispers in his ear, then kisses the back of his neck, and behind his jaw, gentle, teasing, just like the real Sam would have.

It's the awful familiarity that gives Dean the strength to push himself off the door and turn to face Sam. When he does he almost gives in, right then, to the urge to kiss those perfect lips, to lift the t-shirt clinging to Sam's damp skin and just lick his entire chest. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath and says, "Sam. No. We're not doing this. Get off."

This prompts a smile, all teeth and jagged edges. "That's the plan."

"Wh- no! Dammit – "

"Why not? I can tell you miss doing this with me, well, the old me. I still remember what you like," Sam practically purrs as he leans in and latches on to Dean's neck, the spot under his jaw that turns all his muscles to Jell-O.

Another moan escapes Dean's lips and he flattens his hands against the door to stop them from touching, stroking, ripping off that shirt. Heat is flashing from Sam's mouth on his neck directly to his dick, and Sam notices, reaching with another low chuckle for the bulge between Dean's legs.

"See? Come on, it doesn't have to be a big deal. Let's just have some fun," Sam murmurs as he slides his hand into Dean's boxers.

"Nn- God, no!" Dean shoves Sam off of him, nausea curling around his stomach. The idea of – what? Just fucking around? Some sort of weird one-night stand? With_ Sam_? He grits his teeth and swallows the lump in his throat, blinks away the stinging behind his eyes. Sam's just watching him, smirking, and suddenly the urge to punch that smirk off his little brother's face is overwhelming and he lunges, but he's not exactly on top of his game and Sam catches him easily. They land on Dean's bed, Dean on top.

Somehow, Sam gets an arm around the small of Dean's back and rolls his hips so the erections they're both sporting rub against each other, making Dean gasp. Then he's on his back and Sam's above him, resting his elbows on either side of Dean's face.

"Come on, Dean. Why not? Just because I'm not your little Sammy doesn't mean I don't still find you… _very _attractive." A hand slips between them and begins rubbing the tip of Dean's erection through his shorts, and he bucks into the pressure, hissing. "And obviously you feel the same way about me. So let's enjoy ourselves." Without giving Dean time to answer, he captures Dean's mouth in a kiss, shoving his tongue in.

Gasping, Dean finally pulls away. "N-no… Sam – ah!" His words end in a whimper as Sam yanks Dean's boxers down, wraps a hand around the base of his cock, and squeezes.

"Tell me to stop," said Sam as he strokes Dean's cock, maddeningly slow. "You want me to stop? Say it."

"S-stop… please… st-stop it…" Despite his words, Dean can't help thrusting forward into Sam's hand, the steady friction driving him insane. Memories of the real Sam doing this, of his smell and the noises he made and the way he felt pressed against Dean's body crowd his mind and he bites his lip. He wants this to be real, wanted to close his eyes and open them and see Sammy, his Sammy.

He closes his eyes.

"That didn't sound very convincing. Tell me what you really want." Fingers push his shirt up and begin teasing his right nipple, rubbing and pinching until it's hard.

"Nn... S-Sam…" Dean can't think anymore. Sam's hands are lighting his skin on fire wherever they touch, and he needs more.

"Tell me what you want," comes the soft voice again and he feels his eyes sting at how much it sounds like his Sam. He knows he's lost.

"Please… S-Sam, please," he rasps, and then his boxers are dragged all the way off. Some shuffling above him and then soft warm skin and muscled limbs, all over, engulfing, and the hand around his aching hard cock is back. A thumb grazes over the tip and he arches with a cry, digging his nails into Sam's back, pulling their hips together, pulling a grunt from Sam as their erections rub.

"I take it that's a yes," the almost-Sam voice says again.

Somewhere beneath the fog of _ohgodpleaserightthere_ Dean hates the calm smoothness of that voice, hates the way his own is broken and rough when he manages to gasp, "Y-yes, fuck you, yes."

Another flick of the thumb over the tip of his cock, which is steadily leaking; he can feel the precome coating himself and Sam's hand. The fingers travel down, squeezing and caressing his balls, and then a finger tip starts rubbing circles around and around his hole. He presses the side of his face into the bed and moans, spreading his legs, feeling lips press sucking kisses to the insides of his thighs.

A small explosion goes off deep in his stomach when a long finger slips inside him, swirling, slowly in and out. Soon a second finger joins it and Dean is whimpering, thrusting himself down onto Sam's fingers. A large hand splays out on his stomach, stilling his frantic pace, and he holds quiveringly still as a third finger enters him. When the fingers brush his prostate, he bucks against the hand, letting out a wanton moan, feeling precome drip from his jutting cock onto his belly. Again and again, the fingers rub circles over his prostate, until he's desperately moaning and fucking Sam's fingers.

Sam rumbles, "Ready?" and Dean can only whine, hips rocking, as Sam pulls his fingers out. Dean feels the blunt head of Sam's cock push against his hole and shoves his hips up, spreading his legs a little wider, whining again when Sam holds off, rubbing the tip against Dean's hole, driving him crazy.

Then he shoves himself all the way inside Dean, gasping as he stills for a moment. Dean is burning, both from the pain of Sam's entrance and from the need for Sam to fucking move right now, and then he gets his wish as Sam pulls back and thrusts in again, setting a punishing pace. With every thrust he slams into Dean's prostate, and their moans mingle.

The heat in Dean's belly turns to lava, thick and boiling, pressing against his cock and building every time Sam thrusts into him. His moans get higher as he feels his balls tighten and then clench, the pressure unbearable. "S-Sammy," he cries, and jerks upward.

"Come on, De," says Sam's voice from above him, and the nickname, which he hasn't heard in over a year, sends him over the edge, sobbing and spurting all over his and Sam's stomachs. Through the aftershock he feels Sam coming inside him, the sensation of fire filling him and Sam collapses on top of him, panting into his shoulder.

With his eyes still closed, Dean pretends it's his Sam gasping and warm against him, and strokes the hair from Sam's forehead, breathing in the smell of his shampoo and sweat. With a hiss, Sam pulls out and rolls off of Dean, then gets up and walks away, leaving Dean splayed out on the bed.

Slowly, Dean turns onto his side and curls up, finally opening his eyes when his face is pressed into the covers, balling his hands into fists and holding them to his chest to hide the shaking that's trying to spread to the rest of his body. It wasn't Sammy, it was never Sammy, but for a brief two minutes it almost felt like him and now he's gone again, and it's worse. So much worse. Shame and regret are creeping coldly over Dean's body, and he wipes angrily at the moisture that leaks over the bridge of his nose to drip onto the bed. Tomorrow he's going to have to get up and talk to him, and look at him, and ride in the car and hunt with him, knowing it meant nothing and remembering the feeling of those hands and that mouth on his skin. He swallows hard, willing the nausea back down.

He just won't think about it. He's an expert at that, right? It won't get to him, he is a professional. He will do his job and not think about it.

Sam pads across the floor and sits down by his laptop. "Night, Dean," he says.

It takes a minute, but Dean manages to say, "Night Sam," before pulling the covers over his head.

_Christ that was sad. I made myself sad, but so did Soulless!Sam. Anyway, if anyone cares, I'm really sorry for doing this instead of the two (two! I have a problem) Psych fics I should be updating, but don't worry, I'm getting to them. Just be happy I'm not also starting the multi-chapter Sherlock fic that's banging around (pun very intended) in my head. Thanks for reading, and I'd really love to know what you think! I'm very very nervous about this, it being my first foray into Wincest, into Supernatural, etc. Peace and love!_


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